


Whiskey and Maudlin Poetry

by fairybog



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alcohol, Bad Decisions, Crowley is a Mess (Good Omens), Love Confessions, Poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-16
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-01 04:01:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168929
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fairybog/pseuds/fairybog
Summary: There is, for all of God's creatures given to the temptations of inebriation, such a thing as Too Much Bourbon. Amounts that would drive the most maudlin of romantics to shake a sad and sympathetic head, enough to make an asthmatic smoke like a chimney and wax sick and philosophical, so much the bourbon turns to ink and the Poets of Drunken Past watch, apprehensive from personal experience, over the secluded, heavy shoulder of whatever heartbroken fool had dared pick up a pen in such a state. Amounts that, if you just so happen to be the demon Crowley, you find yourself far, far too familiar with.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 18





	1. Without You I'm Nothing

**Author's Note:**

> h e y so.  
> this is the first fic i've written in like. jeez 4 or 5 yrs?  
> so thats my first disclaimer. my second one is that i am Not British so take that as you may.  
> anyway this was born of one of my favorite personal headcanons and a line i thought of that bumped around in my brain for months before i figured out how to make it work. its just a short lil thing.  
> also if my formatting is a little off, i apologize. phone writing.

There is, for all of God's creatures given to the temptations of inebriation, such a thing as Too Much Bourbon. Amounts that would drive the most maudlin of romantics to shake a sad and sympathetic head, enough to make an asthmatic smoke like a chimney and wax sick and philosophical, so much the bourbon turns to ink and the Poets of Drunken Past watch, apprehensive from personal experience, over the secluded, heavy shoulder of whatever heartbroken fool had dared pick up a pen in such a state. Amounts that, if you just so happen to be the demon Crowley, you find yourself far, far too familiar with.

Unfortunately, the demon Crowley really only can ever be himself, nursing the age old wound of feelings best smothered; memories and thoughts best tucked into mental glass jars (holes in the lid, of course. He's a demon, not a _monster_.) and put away for much later, hidden and swallowed and buried and hoarded about like porcelain knickknacks of the soul. 

Denial, at least of the ascetic variety, he's fairly versed in. Masochism is pleasurable to many. And if it hurts a bit too much to straddle that line, if it dips its toe into self punishment and pity and swan dives elegantly into pain, well.. Play stupid games, win stupid prizes. 

He's been here before- not here at Whichever Bar specifically, it could be any bar, any city, any alcohol at nearly any point in human history. But here, wallowing, three thousand sheets to the ether, pen or quill or chisel or stick in hand. Confessing.

_Pathetic._

The jukebox keeps miraculously playing incredibly melancholy, sappy music no matter who puts in a coin or what they pick. A few other patrons seem profoundly affected by this, sensitive souls lingering in the corners, unknowingly being spoonfed a heaping helping of dramatic, drunken _feeling_. Misery loves company.[1][](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168929/chapters/55454587)

_Ssshouldn't you have learned by now?_

And where is Aziraphale tonight? Away, some assignment he seemed keen to take and a demon with nothing to drag him towards that destination for the purpose of the Arrangement, so Crowley is here and Aziraphale there and maybe if he could ever figure out how to keep his mood from infecting every blasted thing with a speaker within a block of him this jukebox wouldn't be taunting him the way it is. Might be able to hear something other than Freddie fucking Mercury in the Bentley for once, too.[2][](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168929/chapters/55454587)

As it stands, however, he's too busy pouring ink over a sheet of paper, serenaded by helplessly syrupy bar rock, drunk enough to reject any advice from the Ghosts of Inebriated Romantics Past as they desperately implore him to reconsider tonight's half-planned exercise in desperate grand gestures. Instead he finds himself proud of what's flowing through him, from finger to pen to perhaps slightly damp paper, easier than he'd ever dreamed the words could be said and egged on by the snake that took up residence in his soul where Grace used to reside.

_Sssee? Easssy as anything. Very sssmooth. Give that bassstard Oscar a run for his money, ressst him._

Not that Crowley is obscenely jealous of some long dead fop the angel befriended during that century's tantrum nap. Not that, of course.

_No, of courssse not._

Soft, sibilant. Susurrus even. The mark of a masterful temptation is the gentle push, after all, the tickle of choice. No one knows this better than Serpent of Eden.[3][](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23168929/chapters/55454587)

_The only thing now is how to do thisss. Can't be too conssspicuousss, no, plausssible deniability ssshould be a virtue ssshouldn't it?_

And suddenly, it comes to him. It's abrupt and giddy upon arrival, like the _coup de foudre_ that struck alongside 'I gave it away!'; it's mischievious, technically illegal, and has all the potential for a long running joke. Best of all, the bookshop is currently empty. The perfect time to strike, especially with his capacity to remember tonight beginning to blur into darkness.

Anyone who has ever veered over the edge of intoxicated and into the warm pit of blacked out could inform Crowley at this moment that this idea is, frankly, stupid at the most generous. He would not listen to you, not with such a convincing part of his very being slowly constricting his better judgement, emboldened by bourbon. The last deliberate call of the night he makes is to miracle himself in front of the bookshop's doors rather than directly inside amongst the shelves just in case the angel's wards have been braced in his absence. No matter, though. The doors open for Crowley as easily as they ever do, as if he belongs there just as much as Aziraphale does. It does not occur to him that this is more than just the luck of the Devil.

And if any patrons of the bar happened to notice him blink off the bar stool and out of existence just as the classic rock hit they've been trying to get the jukebox to play all night finally began, well, maybe they were just a little more gone than they thought they were and they might ought to sip this one rather than slam it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 This has, in the past, resulted in a number of cases of wild, blatant plagiarism when some miserable company- usually a songwriter, but there have been poets and authors a plenty, and even one screenwriter trapped in The Block and trying to drown it- caught him with his guard down, tenuous at best sense of self-preservation puking into the roses instead of watching the gate that keeps his mouth shut. The deep and abiding torment must be a part of his personal Hell, a punishment; oak barrelled proclamations being published in books, you know, _books_ , a halfassed pop version of his hectic gesturing tinny and blaring out through shops and in commercials and, on one horrifying occasion, the radio in the _fucking Bentley_ as he careened toward whatever frivolity Aziraphale had most definitely Not Asked to be indulged in with that little But I Didn't Not Ask flutter of his perfect eyelashes. He'd thoroughly enjoyed the song, offhandedly mentioning a few months later that nothing else that artist made was as good, and Crowley still hasn't decided if that makes it better or worse. Can something be both? [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return1%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
> 2 Crowley is perfectly aware that would break the Bentley's metaphorical heart, what with how much she loves Queen. Would serve her right for using her occult proximity gifted sentience to tease him, the beautiful traitor. Crowley couldn't stay mad at her long enough to deny her. It seems a thoroughly consistent failure. [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return2%E2%80%9D) ]
> 
> __3 The Voice of Temptation is less something Crowley has honed, mastered and weaponised, and far more something he has had to listen to echo around in his mind since, oh, She first shaped him. This fact generally leads to existential crises and theological arguments with himself, and so he buries it beneath the well worn armor of Totally On Purpose, Just Slick Like That.  [ [return to text](%E2%80%9C#return3%E2%80%9D) ]  
> yes, i did write The Poem. yes, The Poem will be in aziraphale's chapter, as im sure youre all dying to know. chapter title is placebo's without you im nothing, which i listened to on repeat along w half a bottle of devils cut jim beam to write this and the blackout love confessional. its my pine tree in sunglasses track. if you wanna talk shop my good omens tumblr is vagueandsaunter, my main is fairybog.


	2. Souviens-toi des moments divins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> an angel finds a poem tucked into a book.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> chapter title taken from placebo's protege moi. i can finally move on to my other ideas!  
> also, the footnote html is still giving me hell and i cant as of yet figure out what im doing wrong, please forgive me.

There is something to be said for a certain type of exhaustion, the kind that feels well earned after a job well done. It is a type of weariness, yes, but a satisfied one, accompanied by a thorough calm that really only can be achieved by devotion to a personal craft. There is, for all God's creatures given to due diligence, this particular glossy reward. If you happen to be the Principality Aziraphale, this particular joy is accompanied by a return to a quiet bookshop in Soho.

_Home._

Fortunately, Aziraphale is quite himself, thank you, and the door to the bookshop opens to his touch with a welcoming sigh to mirror his own relieved one. It is quite late, and he has been gone for nearly a week, but the recipient of the blessing he was delivering was a wonderful girl, set firmly on a path of selflessness and now provided a step towards achieving great kindnesses the world over. That said, he has missed his shop, and he has a priceless work in the backroom in need of rebinding, and he desperately wants a cup of cocoa in his favorite mug that he can sip once and promptly forget once settled in. Everything in order.

Perhaps tomorrow he'll ring Crowley for dinner. He's missed him too, though he neatly locks the quantification of how much he missed his- _the_ demon, not his, silly slip- into the mental chest he keeps handy for those feelings. Best not to think of it. Best not examined too closely, locked away, quieted. Best, perhaps, to wait until the day after tomorrow. Over eager is an unbecoming shade on anyone, surely. And yet...

As he steps further in, the lights flickering to the perfect level of cozy yet read-by-able, Aziraphale could swear he _feels_ the demon. Admittedly, there tends to be a small holdover from his presence whenever Crowley spends the evening sprawled across the leather sofa in the backroom, but this trace left a trail of sorts, winding through the shelves and spiking here or there as if he had stopped to ponder whatever (obviously wicked) wile he'd had the audacity to break into the bookshop to perform when he knew Aziraphale was away.

If Aziraphale walks the trail slowly to buy himself time to both indulge in the overwhelming warmth of the sensation of Crowley's very singular brand of love[1] and rationalize away the reason for skimming his fingertips against the shelves and spines it clings to, time to pretend he isn't already thinking rather unangelic things before he's even seen Crowley again, well, that's his business.

Just as he's beginning to think that maybe Crowley had simply forgotten he was away and stopped in to try to find him to pester out of boredom, slithering his way into the back before remembering, a particular book's binding meets the pads of his fingers and the concentration of affection that wraps around his corporation's heart makes his knees want to buckle. The book itself is comparatively unremarkable, an original Encyclopedia Brittanica so out of date it's hardly worthy of being called encyclopedic any longer, kept more for its historical importance than as a worthwhile archive. Absently, Aziraphale notes as he removes it from the shelf that the poor thing could use a touch up, and then, slightly more presently, notices a tremble in his hands. Odd, that.

Before he can coherently wonder what about this book it was that caused Crowley to stop here long enough to imbue it with so much feeling, something flutters out and falls at his feet. There is a brief moment of indignance, and slight shock, at the thought that Crowley would go so far as to _rip a page out of one of his books_ and then not even have the decency to fix it or at least _inform_ him, before he realizes that the paper at his feet is decidedly newer than the pages the book is comprised of.

Newer, and unquestionably the source of the feeling he followed to this shelf. The wave of love is almost dizzying in its sudden unearthing, and the tremble in Aziraphale's hands makes another bid for the fortitude of his knees. He reshelves the encyclopedia without looking away from the note at his feet, and manages to retrieve it and get into a comfortable chair before he loses his balance.

The page seems to be from a spiral notebook, lines slightly faded, and the extra slant to Crowley's normally atrocious chickenscratch coupled with the lingering whiff of alcohol makes Aziraphale smile to himself despite the whirl of emotions attempting to smother him. As an avid reader through countless ages, he is well practiced in deciphering both bad handwriting and drunken scrawl. [2]

It is not, objectively, the most profound piece ever written; funny, given how much of what is considered so was pilfered from the demon's mouth over the millenia. Aziraphale reads it once, twice, thrice. On the fourth time through he mouths the lines, finds a rhythm he thinks suits. The fifth time he vividly imagines how it might sound in Crowley's voice and abruptly has to force his face from flushing any further than he realizes it already has. All thoughts of cocoa are long abandoned, the tremble in his hands and the knocking of his knees has settled, finally, into a warm fluttering knot in his center as he memorizes the message. The sentiment woven into the stationery momentarily smothers the ever-present fear of discovery and destruction. It ebbs and flows from the paper and up his arms in a slow, gentle crawl, into his chest, and he exhales it back, a call and response awash in this beautiful joyous noise and color. He feels _safe_ , holding this messy, badly hidden and poorly thought out confession that he knows he cannot address, and by the time he tears his eyes from it the sun has long since risen.

Aziraphale tucks it beneath the drawer of the till, the smallest of miracles wrapped delicately about it as to prevent any mangling of the sheet or smudging of the ink (beyond that present upon delivery, anyway. The poor dear must have been solidly smashed.) and flips the shop sign to open as he thinks on where he's going to ask Crowley to meet him for dinner this evening. 

_You,_

_you, you._

_Radiant, of pure and simple comfort fulfilled,_

_the fine hum of loveliness in the air about your smile._

_I am intimately familiar with the sensation of descent,_

_I, ever the optimist,_

_I, ever the fool,_

_hung, draped, cling to your words and to your whims._

_Eager to indulge I drink from your presence; ask and receive._

_My reward your contented company._

_I am, have always been, a seeking thing, wanting- a hollow soul restless and yearning to know,_

_and I wonder:_

_Do you, pure and good and glowing, ever resent the futility of inquiry?_

_Have you in your bright and clever way begun to search for something new?_

_When lost in your thoughts,_

_do I ever find my way in?_

_Curious me, set upon my never ending questions, find myself possessed._

_I, knowing too well the heady tilt of a downward spiral,_

_acquainted so with the loss of solid footing,_

_familiar as I am with the itch and pull of the blistered and the burned,_

_saw this for its truth the moment it toppled me from the wall._

_A meteoric plummet._

_My fresh want bled into the hole my First left behind,_

_and I, willing to once more set myself ablaze_

_followed the skittering arrthymia_

_and slip and trip and clamber to your side._

_You._

_The second time I Fell._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [1] Aziraphale knows. Has known. Sometimes wishes he didn't, the risk and the repression nearly too heavy to bear, often feeling undeserving of such devotion, but he cherishes it all the same. _Nothing_ has ever felt the way Crowley's love feels, warm and sincere and deep as an ocean trench, one true constant in the march of time.
> 
> [2] This is also not the first time he has received an inebriated missive from a Crowley oversteeped and drowning in longing, but he has the good grace not to mention them after the fact. This one shall be no different in that regard.


End file.
